As for the women, they surrounded Mirana, hugging her and kissing her loudly, telling her that finally Lord Rorik had shown good sense. “Aye,” Old Alna said, trying to look wise, “finally he’s wedded a woman like his mother, wise and kind. Aye, and strong. ’Tis a strong woman Lord Rorik must have for he is a warrior, a Viking, and at the bottom of things, he is a man, and thus rough and untidy, sometimes unmeasured in his talk and actions.”
“A good thing I say,” Amma said. “You didn’t really bind Alna or Asta very tightly, so you don’t need to feel guilt about it. They understood. All were proud of you and your cunning.”
“Now Gurd will keep to me at night,” Asta said, laughing and hugging Mirana. “I am very fond of the new Entti and know now that you won’t allow any more married men to abuse their wives with their infidelities.”
“I will do my best,” Mirana said, smiling at all of them, these women who’d taken care of her and fed her and treated her as one of them, without question. Mirana felt very lucky. She saw Utta standing at the edge of their circle, and quickly drew her in. “I thank you, little one. I am nearly as good a cook as you are.” And Utta hugged her close. “Aye, Utta, you and I will deal very well together, never doubt it or my affection for you. Would you be my sister or my daughter?”
All the women laughed at that.
And there was Erna, drawing back, as she always did, but she was smiling, moving slowly closer, her face softly pretty. “Utta must be a sister, I think,” she said, looking from little Utta to Mirana, “for none would ever think you her mother.”
That night Mirana slept in Rorik’s bed. He slept in the outer hall, wrapped in a wool blanket. She happened to see the chain lying next to the bed on the floor. She just looked at it. She didn’t touch it.
She smiled. What she was doing was right, she felt it deep inside her.
15
THE FOLLOWING DAY dawned warm and sunny. More birds than Mirana had ever seen in her life seemed to have visited the island for their wedding, flying overhead, swooping downward, spinning through the clouds, their keening cries filling the air. It was magical.
It was a perfect day to be married.
Mirana stood opposite Rorik, beneath a sweet-smelling apple tree, her hand held in his across the space between them. His men flanked him, with Hafter at his right hand. The women, led by Old Alna, stood behind her, Entti at her right hand.
The women had done wonders. They’d sent Mirana off to bed the previous night, and immediately made their plans.
Mirana was now wearing a gown of the softest wool, dyed a rich saffron. Her tunic was a pale cream, fastened at her shoulder with two beautifully pounded silver brooches, a gift from Rorik. She wore soft leather slippers on her feet, a gift from Erna, who’d said softly, “I haven’t two good hands, but I do hav
e two good feet and they are just your size.”
The slippers fit her perfectly. Mirana’s hair was loosely plaited, as one would a belt of soft leather, and wound up onto the top of her head with pale saffron-colored linen ribbons threaded through the thick coils.
She felt calm. Her decision was a good one. Even if Rorik were marrying her to forward his revenge against Einar, she didn’t care. She still believed him honorable. She held to that thought, now looking at Rorik, who said slowly, his voice deep and sure, “I will take you to wife, Mirana, daughter of Audun. I give you all that is mine and promise you my honor and loyalty and fidelity until I die. Before all our gods and all our people, this I vow.”
Some of the men cheered, several slapping him on the back, but most were silent, their eyes on the ground, uncertain and wary. When there was again full silence, all eyes went to Mirana.
“My Lord Rorik,” she said, looking up at him, and now she smiled, for he was looking very serious, overly serious, and it charmed her. She’d thought about what she would say to him and to his people, words that were critical to all of them. Her fingers tightened about his. “I come to you with naught save myself and what I am. I will be faithful to you and to your people for as long as I live. I swear to place your welfare above mine own, to honor you as my husband and as the lord of Hawkfell Island, and hold your interests first in my mind. I will never betray you. This I vow before our gods and before all who are here with us.”
Now the women cheered, much more loudly than the men, full-bodied cheers that rang out over the island, sending the birds winging upward, shrieking wildly. Kerzog barked madly, danced about the two of them and licked Mirana’s feet. She felt pats on her shoulders and back. “Well done,” Entti said in her ear.
“Thank you, Mirana,” Rorik said. He looked at his men. Then he raised her hand and slipped a small golden band on her middle finger. It was tight. She wondered to whom it had belonged. To his first wife? She made a fist, thrusting her arm high toward the cobalt-blue sky, symbolizing her acceptance and commitment to her marriage with Rorik.
The cheering began again, but not as loud as it could be. The women were shouting their heads off, making up for the men’s wariness, Mirana knew, and felt a stab of anger for Rorik because his men were holding back, still uncertain of his decision, looking at her and knowing that she was of their enemy’s blood. Rorik took her fist in his hand, gently opened her fingers, and laced his own fingers through hers. He grinned like a happy boy. The men eased, Mirana saw it and felt it. They began to cheer. When Rorik pulled her against him, lifting her high off the ground, his arms wrapped around her, and kissed her long and deep, the men began to laugh and jest. The women giggled and nudged each other. Chickens clucked wildly some feet away. The dozen or so children present looked uncertain, staring from their parents to Mirana and Rorik, then they were laughing and hooting and stomping their feet as loudly as the men and women.
Mirana felt such relief she would have shouted herself, but then what she felt was Rorik’s mouth, warm and soft and firm. He wasn’t particularly insistent, nay, he wasn’t trying to savage her. He was more like an explorer, feeling the texture of her mouth, letting her learn him, taking his time, moving ever so slowly. Mirana, who had never before been kissed, hung there in his arms, relaxed as she could be with her blood crashing through her body, her hands on his shoulders, not understanding what all this was about, this strange concoction of feelings that were rioting in her belly. He said against her lips, “Kiss me, Mirana. It’s only right that you do so. You are now my wife, before the gods and before our people, who are finally yelling their throats raw.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her breath warm against his mouth.
“Open your mouth and I will show you.”
She did. His tongue slid between her lips. She gasped, wriggled unconsciously, much to the uproarious delight of all their people.
“He already makes her wild. Rorik won’t contain his seed until the night falls!”
This was from Aslak, the only one of Rorik’s men who truly approved his master’s choice, for he’d lived at Clontarf for nearly six months and seen Mirana as she was. He quite liked her, save for her skill with weapons. That, as it should be for any reasonable man, was a bit frightening, for females were unpredictable at the best of times.
“She wriggled like a happy little stoat, she did. Did you see her bottom?”
“Rorik will make her scream with pleasure and all of us will be awake to hear it.”